Chapter 1

The man, his hands tied behind his back, is sitting on a chair in the middle of the room. He is both foolish and wise. His haircut is ridiculous.

In front of him stands a man in expensive clothes. He is wearing Tommy Hilfiger jeans and a Levi’s shirt. His hair looks good.

“Why were you following my wife?” he asks.

The man on the chair snorts.

“And why weren’t you following her?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Tell me, do you think she’s faithful to you?”

The standing man’s nostrils flare in anger. The one sitting snorts again.

“Tell me, do you have any idea just how unfaithful she is to you?”

Anyway, stop. We should probably start from the beginning.

I wrote with the hand of the one you call Shakespeare. I listened to the sermons of the one from Nazareth.

You don’t believe me? Then how else would I know that he had red hair and a long nail on his left pinky? Don’t interrupt. So...

I deciphered Pushkin’s secret codes. I was walking toward the beginning of all beginnings. In the end, I staged legendary plays about the city of B. Until a tragedian took the theatre away from me, of course. And yes, as it always happens, first I lost the battle with myself, and only then did I lose to my enemy. It’s only fair that I was left with nothing.

And so now I’m here. I can’t tear myself away from the building in downtown Boston.

All because SHE lives in it. When you lose everything, the only thing left is to fall in love. They say God loves losers, because He leaves them no paths except toward Himself (read: toward love).

Listen, isn’t it strange that You showed up right now? After all, it can only mean one thing, that a new story has begun. But how is that possible, when I don’t have a theatre anymore? Unless ... fate is giving me a second chance.

I don’t know. I don’t feel the threads of fate as well as I used to. Life spoils everyone, me too. There’s this stupid saying: “What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.” Tell that to a man with a broken arm. Or to a theatre director who has lost his theatre.

But a ruined saint can still surprise. Since You’re here ... maybe that’s what I’ll do, I’ll try to amaze You again. The truth is, for now I don’t really understand what I’m supposed to do.

So, You had a question. What am I doing next to this house? As I said — wrote — SHE lives in it. My Dulcinea. My love. She’s behind one of the windows on the second floor. Let me show her to You. They say first impressions are the truest. Take a look at her and tell me what impression she makes on You. But I’m warning You right away: Don Quixote tolerates only praise when it comes to his Dulcinea.